


Water and Blood

by tokillthatmockingbird



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, people are calling the sheriff john and i'm pretending it's canon, the mcstilinski family is better than yours
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-10 15:19:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tokillthatmockingbird/pseuds/tokillthatmockingbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because blood is thicker than water doesn't mean it's more important.</p><p>Or a series of ficlets in which the McCall-Stilinski clan teaches us how to be a family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Fall was on the heels of the summer heat, licking at the boys’ faces with a chill as the wind whipped around them. The Stilinski’s front yard was wild, overgrown with naturally growing plants and Claudia’s famous vegetable garden. Stiles and Scott chased each other around the unkempt foliage, stumbling and laughing, a static energy of youth clinging to their worn out tennis shoes. They would start the first grade in a few days, and while their mothers kept insisting that meant they were all grown up, they stubbornly embraced their childish moments with the tenacity only young boys could have.

“Let’s play Cops and Cops!” Stiles exclaimed, ignoring the smack of wet shoelaces around his ankles.

Long ago, Stiles and Scott had given up on fighting about Cops and Robbers. They could bow their heads together and argue for hours about who would be the better robber _anyway_ , but in the end, paternal adoration won out and neither would concede. Wanting so badly to be like their fathers, Scott and Stiles refused to become the _evil scum_ that their parents kept off the quiet streets of Beacon Hills.

Scott abandoned a worm he had been poking at with a squelch of sneakers in mud. His mouth was drawn open in ecstatic reply when the green front door of the Stilinski house flew open, revealing Claudia Stilinski with her brown curls and her favorite apron, brow knit against the dying sunlight.

“Boys, it’s time to come inside!” she called out into her forest of a yard. Stiles and Scott, with their infinite stealth and spastic movements, ducked behind a rose bush and covered their snickers with dirty hands. “We have to wash up those hands before we eat dinner!”

She was met with a silence that she didn’t know was possible from her two boys.

“And we can’t eat dessert without eating dinner.”

Claudia held in laughter as she watched tentative heads poke over the tops of her foliage, wide eyes blinking in curiosity.

“I made chocolate chip cookies.”

They stumbled over each other, a swarm of limbs and mud and excitement, hurling through the door like a hurricane as John’s car rolled into the drive. He was standing at the gate when he heard Stiles yell— he had yet to figure out appropriate volume levels— at his friend next to him, “Maybe next time I’ll be the FBI Agent, and you can be the deputy!”

When he and Claudia met eyes from across the yard, they both laughed, hearing the unison reply of the boys, “Nah!”

After dinner, Claudia sat at the table, a warm mug of tea between her delicate hands, tears caught in the corners of her eyes. John sat beside her, carefully tucking a wild curl behind her ear. “Honey, what’s wrong?” he asked, sharp edges of deputy duty wearing away into husband instinct. Claudia sniffled and offered a watery smile.

“You know, when Dr. Capetta told me that I couldn’t have another child,” she told, “I was so upset.” John nodded knowingly; he had felt rather gutted too, despite not knowing how he could keep up with _two_ Stileses when they had enough problems keeping track of one. “I’m just so happy we got our second son after all.”


	2. Chapter 2

The yard was no longer as wild as the boys who played in it. The grass was trimmed neatly, the bushes hacked away, and Claudia’s vegetable garden was nothing more than dying seeds in the soil, buried underground like their gardener. When his mother was in the hospital, Stiles tended to the crop as diligently as he could. It simultaneously reminded him of his mother and made him forget her; he could get lost in the movements of scooping and planting and pouring, but eventually the dirt under his nails would smell like her, and that magical release from reality would instantly disappear.

After she died, John found Stiles crying in her garden— though it was more Stiles’ than Claudia’s at that point— and he clamped shaky hands on the boy’s shoulders and brought him inside. Stiles spent the next three days curled up on the couch with a blanket secured around him, and the seeds ended up packed tightly in the soil anyway.

John almost thought it was Claudia’s ghost tending to the garden, but he sternly reminded himself that that was just morbid, wishful thinking.

He saw Scott’s head poke above the bushes one morning, and he sighed, toting with him his coffee mug and the heaviness that had taken over since Claudia had died. “Scott, what are you doing?” he asked, more exasperated than upset.

Scott and Stiles had learned stealth from one another; while they were quick to hide once caught, their spastic movements signaled their position from miles away. When Scott rolled into the bushes, John merely stooped and dragged him out by his collar. The boy sheepishly complimented John’s slippers and refused to look up.

“Scott,” he repeated firmly, “what are you doing?”

“Stiles said the garden was dying,” Scott gulped. “I just wanted to help keep it alive for when you guys were ready—”

“Don’t.”

“What?” Scott’s eyes were wide in fear and pain.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want you to fix up the garden, Scott. We’re letting it die.” Just like he had let Claudia die, every living piece left of her would too. Their cat went missing the other week, and John made no effort to search for her. The alarm Claudia set for her early morning yoga had been turned off. Her body wash was discarded from the shower, along with her razor and a nearly empty bottle of perfume. Her recipe books were stowed away in a box in the attic, and John tried tucking her memories up there with them. He didn’t want to forget her, but he didn’t need to be reminded of her either.

“Oh. I… I didn’t know.” Scott, fourteen years old and too skinny for his height, wriggled uncomfortably in his father’s old sweatshirt. “I won’t do it anymore. If you don’t water them, Mr. Stilinski, I don’t think they’re gonna grow.”

A silence passed between them, awkward and loud. Their conversation had always been natural, a dialogue between chosen father and son. They had yet to learn how to navigate one another when such a large part of John was missing.

“I saw that the fence was peeling a bit,” Scott said, gesturing to the gate he had left ajar. “My dad said he’d help me paint it this weekend so you guys don’t have to.”

“Thank you, Scott, but we can manage,” John promise, voice thin. He wasn’t aggravated with Scott offering to help, just the veiled and unintentional accusation that John couldn’t take care of the home now that Claudia was gone. “You all have done enough. Your mother has stocked our fridge for a month.”

Scott side-eyed the backpack that sat among the dirt and gardening tools. John sighed.

“What did you bring?” he asked, dragging a tired hand over his eyes.

Scott scrambled and unzipped his pack, tentatively offering a Ziploc of chocolate chip cookies. “Mom and I made them last night. We just— we—” His words broke off in a pathetic whimper, and John watched tears flood behind his eyes.

“Scott?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stilinski,” he said, voice wavering as he struggled to reel in his full emotion. Between Scott and Stiles, Stiles had always been more of an emotional vault than his friend. He harbored them and held them, where Scott had always felt more free to lose them into the world. “I just… I miss Mrs. Stilinski a whole lot.”

John set aside the bag of chocolate chips and his coffee mug and offered a hug to the young boy in front of him. “I do too, Scott.” Scott cried and clung, tears staining John’s shirt. A veneer of wetness clung to John’s eyes, and he blinked it away before Scott pulled back, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.

“I just couldn’t think about the garden dying because… because she loved it so much, and whenever someone asks me which house is yours, I always say, ‘Yeah, the Stilinski’s house is the one with the green door and the big vegetable garden.’ And I remember Mrs. Stilinski teaching me about planting carrots and that apparently tomatoes are fruit, so the garden just… reminds me of her. And I swear, Mr. Stilinski, I’ve been trying not to cry,” he told John earnestly. “I know that Stiles has been upset, because it’s his mom, not mine, and—”

“No,” John demanded, “she was your mother too. It’s okay to cry.”

So Scott did.


	3. Chapter 3

The family therapist said that Scott would take time to grieve his parents’ relationship. Like with his beloved grandmother, with Mrs. Stilinski, the divorce would be like a death in the family, like the loss of a loved one. All Melissa and Rafael could do was be patient and supportive and honest. Eventually, the dissolution of the family would settle easily into his routine, and it would barely be a thought in his head.

Nearly fifty percent of marriages these days ended in divorce, the therapist reminded a distraught Melissa McCall. Your son won’t be alone.

No, her son was never alone because her son had Stiles Stilinski. And with Claudia’s death fresh in their hearts, the boys would have single parent households to navigate both independently and not. Scott learned how to set the table for three and then learned how to set it for four. Family came first, Rafael always said, and you can worry about Stiles later.

But Scott was the kind of person who worried about Stiles first because he was knit of different things than his father, of fierce protection and metallic loyalty and quiet concern. Scott always saw his world in irrefutable black-and-white; there was good, and there was bad. He hated when his lines overlapped or when they blurred, when he’d have to squint like he was utterly myopic, at the boundaries he carved for the good and the bad. Stiles, Mom, Dad, Mr. Stilinski— good. Criminals, the fifth grade math teacher, Hitler— bad.

He struggled when he started to realize that Good people could do bad things, like the first time Rafael took a swing at his wife, like the first time he called his son “useless”.

But then his father would get down on one knee and put a solemn hand on Scott’s shoulder and excuse himself and excuse himself and excuse himself, tears in his eyes, a tremor in his voice. Even Good Guys made mistakes; he could still be a Good Guy.

Stiles ignored it for a long time, whatever harsh words that would slam through closed doors, the tears that pricked behind Scott’s eyes when he returned from a verbal berating that would make grown men quiver. He ignored Mrs. McCall’s split lip and the red flush of embarrassment that appeared on Scott’s cheeks before he ran to the bus stop. He ignored it because it would be too awkward, because his mom was dying and he had other things to think about, because Scott would tell him when he was ready. He so desperately wanted Scott’s family to be whole in a way that his wasn’t anymore that he banished his loyalty to his selfishness.

One day, there were strings of words that echoed throughout the house, not tied up in bows, but in nooses. In weapons that were sharp and hurtful and mean, that followed Scott up the stairs and back into his bedroom where he threw himself with hot tears and stinging skin in arms that Stiles hadn’t realized were open and cried.

Newly-Sheriff-ed John Stilinski talked Stiles down from two panic attacks before Stiles could finally explain that the McCall family would be more whole without Mr. McCall in it, that wholeness was not based on the presence of all members but on the conviction of the loving relationships that were there. That Stiles had messed up, messed up so bad, and they needed to do something.

John invited Rafael out for coffee, and they sat in a booth in a secluded corner of the diner, devoid of milling late-night visitors and waiters who cared about their tips. “I gotta talk to you about Scott, Rafael,” John finally said after half an hour of small talk.

“What’d he do?” His expression melted from one of soft happiness to hard lines of irritation.

“Why do you assume he did something?” John asked, brow raised.

“Why else would the Sheriff of Beacon Hills want to talk to me about my son?” Rafael replied, whipping his napkin onto the table and scrubbing a tired hand over his face. John pushed his coffee mug away and intertwined his fingers over the table.

“Because Scott is Stiles’ best friend,” he answered easily. “So I have an invested interest in his well-being.”

“Well, what’d he get himself into?” Rafael demanded.

“Nothing,” John snapped back. “Rafael, Scott is a good kid. The only trouble he gets into is the trouble Stiles drags him into.”

“So why are we here?”

“Stiles has been really concerned about Scott,” John started, slow, even, avoiding any accusatory tone that might slip through his trained tranquility. His heart was hammering, trying to burst from his chest in a murderous rage. The thought of anyone trying to harm a sweet boy like Scott McCall made his blood boil. “He says that Scott’s been really down on himself lately, said he’s been calling himself awful things, and… well, he didn’t used to do that—”

“Are you _accusing_ me—?”

“I’m not trying to point fingers, Rafael,” John interrupted, “but I’m just thinking in Scott’s best interest.”

“What do you know about the best interest of my child?” Rafael demanded, outraged. “When I’ve got your kid sleeping at my house every single weekend because you’re too drunk to come pick him up!” A red flush rose to John’s cheeks, both in shame and in anger. “I might be tough on Scott, but I’ve _never_ done what you’ve done to Stiles. He lost his _mother_ , and instead of being there for him, you’re drinking yourself into a stupor? And then you have the _audacity_ to accuse me of mistreating my son?” He started to slide from the booth, shaking his head, brow furrowed. “This is ridiculous.”

“I never said I was a perfect parent—”

“I’d say you’re a pretty lousy one, John, but I mind my own business!”

John physically reacted, recoiling from the smack of Rafael’s words in his own heart. He sunk back, reproachful, and felt a flare of rage flicker under the embarrassment. If he was a grown man, intimidated by Rafael, he could only imagine how young Scott felt facing the man.

“This isn’t about _my_ parenting, Rafael!” he exclaimed, and there were customers looking in their direction, letting their conversations smother into silence from discomfort. “It’s about the fact that Scott calls our landline at eleven o’clock at night bawling his eyes out because you’ve called him ‘worthless’ about a stupid _math test_. And Stiles told me that you’ve _hit_ Melissa? What the hell are you _doing_ , Rafe?” As Claudia Stilinski’s husband, John had known nights where he wanted to shake the infuriatingly stubborn woman in exasperation, but he _didn’t_. Because that’s not what you did to your wife. That’s not what you did to _anyone_. “So, sorry, but the way that I cope with my wife’s death has nothing to do with the fact that you’re _abusing_ your family!”

“ _Abusing_? You think I’m abusing them?”

“So does Melissa.” It was Rafael’s turn to visibly sink back in his seat. “And when I asked Scott about it, he cried too hard to actually answer the question.” Rafael visibly shook, but to hide it crossed his arms over his chest and avoided John’s eyes. “What are you doing, Rafe? What are you doing?”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t tell me how to be a husband. Don’t tell me how to raise my kid. Melissa’s not your wife. Scott is not your son—”

“He’s as good as,” John replied harshly. “So I’m trying to do what’s best for him, and Rafael, it’s not you. Not right now.”

Rafael buried his head in his hands. The restaurant seemed to become self-occupied once more, and the clattering noises of late-night dining broke the silence between the men. John sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. He had no intention of fighting with the man— all he had wanted was to reason with him, to keep Scott safe.

“I know the job can get to you. Believe me, Rafe, I have seen some horrible things, and I know you have too. But you gotta choose between your family and your job right now,” John said. “You gotta choose. Get some help. Get better for them. They need you, just not like this.”

Rafael tried to choose his family. He really, genuinely tried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically, this is another self-indulgent fic with no set plot, but more like a set theme? I hope you're enjoying it regardless.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one got very long, so bear with me people... Also, there is a trigger warning for mild mentions of physical abuse. So read with caution!

For a town as quiet as Beacon Hills, Deputy Stilinski was very dismayed by the amount of domestic calls the department took in during any given month. It was nothing too alarming, in all honesty— less than double digits depending on whether or not the Whittemores were feeling particularly annoyed that the noise from David Lahey’s house was disrupting their family dinner. But every time they got a call, whether he was sitting behind his desk or out in a squad car, John made sure to take the cases himself.

            He thought that he did it for Claudia. A homage to the way they met— her with her hippie braids and long skirt, passing out flyers for a march for battered women. Him, naive and sheltered but finding himself pulled— like he had been magnetized to her energy— to the heart of the protest the day it marched through campus. But he did it for himself, to know that he was helping fix the scraps of some families, even though he could barely do it for his own.

            “John.” There was a rap on the door that accompanied his name. “Domestic call at 339 Oakwood Street.” John froze. He felt that tug around his navel, that charged draw of Claudia sparking him into action. “Yang is down the block, so I told him to take it up. I figured, since you’re headed home—”

            “Call Yang off.” Without a coat, he stormed passed his coworker towards the parking lot. “Call him off _now_. My kid is over there.”

            He heard Maria’s soft gasp as the glass doors of the station swung shut behind him. John tapped the speed dial that his son had set for him. Four rings and a voicemail message. He tried once again with the same results, just more infuriating than before. What the hell was the point of getting the kid a cell phone if he didn’t use it in times of crisis?

            Lights spinning, Deputy Stilinski parked crooked in front of their neat, green lawn. The neighbor kids were standing in the yard, pressed tightly up against their fence, eyes wide with worry as they tried to peer through the curtain of the McCall’s home. John, barely attempting to curb his irritation, growled, “Go on back inside.” They scurried away, a mass of swinging limbs and murmured confusions.

            John knocked because protocol dictated it, but he barely waited for his knuckles to hit the wood before he swung open the door.

            “After everything I have sacrificed for this family—!” Rafael’s rough voice traveled from the kitchen. John could hear the impact of his voice from the front hall.

            “I’m trying to do what’s best for Scott!” Melissa said in a voice that was not a whimper— Melissa McCall did not cower in front of mere men— but it was a wavering lilt of her usual cadence. All confidence was sapped from her, though her conviction rang through. She was scared. John could tell— and that was all he needed to know.

            “What’s best for _Scott_?” Rafael bellowed. “If you think that taking him away from his _father_ is what’s best for him, then you’re stupider than I thought you were!”

            “If you were a _father_ in the first place, maybe—”

            There was an echoing sound— the unmistakable clap of skin-on-skin, and John heard a searing gasp of pain.

            “Rafael, you take one step, and I’ll cuff you, I swear to God.”

            The kitchen was in a careful state of disarray. Chairs were turned over, glass bottles on the counter shattered, and cabinet doors were swung wide open, their contents nearly spilling off the shelves. Melissa had one hand pressed to a reddening cheek, the other inefficiently trying to tuck the thirteen-year-old Scott behind her while he fumed, mouth half-drawn open in protest before John interrupted.

            “John, what the hell are you doing here?” Rafael asked slowly, though nothing moved but his mouth. Immobilized by being caught, by guilt and embarrassment, he seemed to have frozen in place.

            “The neighbors called and said they were concerned about the screaming.” John’s voice was clipped. A measured sense of police protocol spat out his civility, but his hands twitched to grab a hold of Rafael’s throat and squeeze. “You should go now, Rafe.” The man’s eyes widened in incredulity of John’s audacity. “You blew it.”

            “Don’t you dare come into my house and tell me—!”

            “Rafael, I’m about ten seconds from shooting you in the goddamn kneecaps, so I suggest you get the hell out of this house before I make you,” John said, fingers curling towards the gun at his hip, a motion which Rafael’s trained eyes watched carefully.

            There was a tense moment of silence in which Rafael wrestled with the knowledge of his own abilities versus John’s. They met eyes, both boiling rage and disappointment, before Rafael’s stiffness slackened into a position of defeat. Hands up in surrender, he said, “I’m going. I’m going. I’ll come back later when we’ve all cooled down.”

            “No, you’re not coming back to this house until Melissa says you can, so I’d be awfully _careful_ about your next words,” John added quickly when Rafael’s mouth drew open in anger. His jaw snapped shut, and he turned towards the back door exit.

            “I’m sorry you had to see that, Scott. I’ll talk to you later, Melissa,” he spat at his wife before he slammed the door in his wake. The glass in one of the panes shattered at the impact, and John watched Scott instinctively pull his mother away from the source of the danger.

            “Are you two all right?” John asked once the glass settled.

            “I’m fine. I’m— Scott, are you okay? Let me look at you,” Melissa demanded, turning to her son and pressing careful hands to his face, surveying all his faded laughter lines.

            “Did he hit you too, Scott?” John asked, stepping only one fraction closer, but stopping when he remembered his duties. It was alien, to treat Melissa and Scott like victims to a crime, alien to associate such an integral part of his life with his work. It was procedure to keep his distance from people who had been physically hurt— he shivered at the word— but it was instinct for him to want to comfort the two in any way he had to offer.

            “No.” Scott’s voice lacked emotion— uncommon for a boy who always allowed himself to feel the full spectrum of emotion. “Just Mom.”

            Melissa turned back to John with wide eyes, not afraid but worried. John was no threat, and Rafael was gone, but she felt it her duty as a mother and a friend to diffuse the tension of the situation. “It was nothing I couldn’t handle,” she said, as if that didn’t mean anything, as if her slight shoulders hadn’t already carried more weight than John could ever bear.

            “Do you have any frozen vegetables?”

            Scott nodded and dug his hand into the back of the freezer for a bag of green beans that his mother never got around to making. He took care to wrap it in a dish rag, to guide her to the kitchen table despite quiet protests of “I’m fine! I’m fine!” He pressed the makeshift ice pack to the swollen redness on her cheek and looked to John.

           “I don’t want him to come back.” Although there was no inflection to his voice, there was fire behind his eyes.

           “I understand that,” the deputy admitted, and although he hated being so clinical while looking at the young man who he took fly fishing, who made him Father’s Day presents and an extra Christmas stocking, he knew there was a procedure to follow. Loving Scott McCall would not change the laws. “But this is your father’s house, so he gets to come back whenever he wants. But you know you’re more than welcome to come stay with us for a few days while you guys figure things out—”

        “What is there to figure out?” Scott suddenly sounded incandescent, a flare lit under his chest. “He said he wouldn’t hit her again, and he lied. I’m done.”

        See, the problem was, Scott McCall didn’t give up on anything. He was a child prone to failure but not to defeat. There was a current of determination running through his veins, a flare of optimism buried in his beating heart. Scott had never once backed down from something that challenged him, but it seemed, after thirteen years, Rafael had discovered an unbreakable boy’s breaking point.

        John had once heard someone say, “Never push a loyal person to the point that they don’t care.” And they were right. The change in Scott was subtle but terrifying, hidden in the shift of shoulders long weighed-down by nasty words. When he looked up, warm eyes turned cold, and John knew then that Melissa and Scott had never told him the full story.

        “You two can stay with me while you petition for a restraining order,” John offered carefully, though technically, he was supposed to ask if that was what they wanted. He hesitated. “Or we can get you two into a hotel, and I can send someone to watch you while—”

         “I’m not getting a restraining order against him,” Melissa said defiantly, factually. “I don’t think putting that on top of a _divorce_ will make this situation any easier.”

          John went quiet. “Oh.”

         “Scott, go pack a bag,” Melissa demanded. “You’re staying with the Stilinskis tonight.”

         “What?! Mom, no _way_ —!” Scott exclaimed, brow drawn in anger.

         “Scott, do what I say right now,” Melissa told him harshly. In the tense silence, her shoulders sagged, and she reached out with gentle hands to cup her son’s face. “I’m going to call your dad, and we’re going to get this straightened out, okay? But I don’t want you to be here.”

         “Well, why not?” John pretended not to notice the thin veneer of tears in the boy’s eyes.

         “Because, sweetheart, this is not something you’re supposed to deal with. You’re supposed to be playing video games and getting into trouble,” Melissa told him, though there was a certain despondency to her voice that made it seem like she was talking to herself more than anything. “It’s only for the night. Besides, you’re always complaining about how we’ve got no food here—”

         “Yeah, but Stiles has less.”

         John felt his face burn in embarrassment. “We’ll order a pizza. Go on, kiddo, you heard your mom.”

         Scott disappeared with some level of discomfort, and John watched as Melissa uprighted an upended chair and sunk into it, colorless, shapeless, helpless. She buried her face in her hands, swiping hot tears from her cheeks. “What am I going to do?” she muttered.

         “We’ll figure it out,” John promised.

         Melissa uncovered her face and turned to him with a grateful and sympathetic smile. “Thank you, John, but honestly, it’s not yours to figure out.”

 

            The next day, Melissa came by early in the same pair of crumpled scrubs she was wearing the day before. Beneath a thick layer of make-up, John could see the swell of a bruise and the lines of exhaustion on her face. “The boys are still asleep,” he told her quietly, though he doubted a hurricane would wake them from their sleep. When John woke at six o'clock, they were still up talking: Scott sniffing, Stiles spewing out cuss words and condolences. “Come on in. I’ll get you a cup of coffee.”

            He had ulterior motives, but that sounded deviant, like he had some sort of self-serving purpose for caffeinating her. Still, he was eager and nervous to know what had transpired between Melissa and Rafael. He had told her to call if the situation got out of hand, but he had waited up all night with his cell phone on high, and no call came through.

            She seated herself in the kitchen chair, guarded, wrapping her arms around her middle, purse still hanging off her shoulder like she refused to get comfortable. She threaded fingers through her hair, winced as her ring caught in her curls. She yanked the piece of jewelry off her finger and examined it for a moment. “When we got married, there was this small piece of me that knew that it wouldn’t last forever. But it seemed like the right thing to do at the time, you know?” Her hands ghosted over her stomach, and John filled in the points to a story he had suspected for a long while. “And then Scott was born, and we were all so happy. But Rafael’s job…”

            Her voice faded away, and she carefully tucked her trembling hands into her lap before looking up at John with tired eyes. He wanted so badly to hold her, without any sort of romantic connotation. He wanted to be able to wrap his arms around her thin shoulders and to protect her from the heavy raincloud above her head. Their relationship was one of mutual comfort and aid, and he felt out of place, knowing he hadn’t helped her this time.

           “I’m sorry. I… I’m sure Claudia already told you all of this.”

            She hadn’t.

           “No, no, of course she didn’t,” Melissa chastised herself when he saw the befuddled look on the sheriff’s face. “I asked her not to tell anyone, and she would _never_ … It’s just… you know how the gossip can be in small towns. What would people think about Melissa Delgado getting pregnant before marriage? I just feel so _stupid_ now. Everyone always says marrying because of a pregnancy is such a bad idea, and… I guess they were right.”

           John placed a mug in front of her, which she gratefully accepted and finally shifted her purse to the floor.

           “Claudia got pregnant in our junior year of college,” John confided in her. Melissa didn’t look surprised, though it was obvious she hadn’t known before. “We were at Planned Parenthood when she decided she want to keep it, and four days later…” John didn’t know there could be so much _blood_. Melissa’s fingers loop around his, but he was so lost in the bad memory that he barely registered the touch. “When the doctors told her she probably wouldn’t be able to have kids, she was so scared I was going to leave her…” He sniffed a laughed. “She said it was the first time she heard of someone getting married because there _wasn’t_ pregnancy.”

           Melissa, watery-eyed, mimicked his laughter.

           “Melissa, you aren’t the first person to get pregnant before marriage, and you won’t be the last. And you aren’t the first person to get divorced either,” John reminded her.

           “I just keep thinking, you know, if there was something I could have done differently. If I would have just listened to him more—”

           “Marriage isn’t about compliance, otherwise Claudia and I would have divorced two days after the honeymoon,” John told her with a bite of laughter on the tip of his tongue. After a bout of silence in which they sipped respective cups of coffee and peered their ears for the sounds of their sons rustling upstairs, John said, “You’re doing the right thing.”

           “I know.”

           “What did he say last night? Did he…?”

           “No,” Melissa said quietly, carefully, but not lying. “We both probably said some things that we’ll regret later, but they had to be said.” She took a meditative breath. “He wants to split custody, but he knows that there’s no way he’ll get anything else. His salary is better, and I’ve got the Sheriff as a character witness to his abu— well.” She hesitated at the word and brushed by it with practiced skill. “I’ve got a better case than he does, especially since Scott will get called to the judge’s chambers on his own.”

           “You’ve done your research.”

           “Years of it.”

           They lapsed into another silence, not uncomfortable but not distinctly comfortable either. The room felt simultaneously too hot and too cold, like someone had poured ice in John’s veins but cranked the heat to something deadly.

           “I’m sorry I took Stiles away from Heather yesterday,” Melissa commented with a laugh. “He’d been talking about their study date for two weeks straight.”

           “You didn’t take him away at all,” John said. Months later, Stiles would berate Scott for lost time with the beloved neighbor girl, but he had been adamant to be picked up right away when his father told him the footnoted version of last night’s debacle. “He wanted to help.” Actually, according to Stiles’ jumbled, raging rant on the front, he wanted to take a gun and shove it somewhere and Rafael’s name was mentioned. But the Sheriff didn’t ask for repeating.

           It suddenly hit him, his immediately response to his junior deputy the day before. “My kid is over there.” He looked at the tennis shoes that joined Stiles’ at the front door.

           Well, he was.


	5. Chapter 5

Rafael was there until he wasn’t. He lost the house in the divorce, lost his wife, but he had his son, and despite whatever Melissa’s lawyer tried to sling around the courtroom, Rafael was still a loving father.

He was working with the Bureau’s psychiatrist, learning to curb his rage and snap biting words off before they left his lips. She talked him through mangled bodies— so many dead bodies— and the bad guys that got away. Rafael blocked out an hour and a half twice a month with Dr. Hartford to sit, straight-backed, fingers laced together and dancing between his knees, on her soft gray couch and to tell her about all the little nightmares that followed him into the daylight.

And it was _hard_. Damn it, it was hard.

But he programmed in his mind, between the flashes of blood and the sound of gunfire, a picture of Scott’s face, small and crumpled with defeat, needing him. It got him through an entire year of therapy— twenty-four sessions, thirty-six hours altogether— until he was put on the Laura Hale case, and it didn’t work anymore.

He made efforts, sitting in the stands at lacrosse meets where he’d flash his son a smile as he sat on the bench for the umpteenth game in a row. He stowed inhalers around his apartment, in case Scott was overcome with an asthma attack during their Wednesdays and every-other-weekends together. He even allowed some of his time with his son to be usurped by Stiles’ presence in the apartment, complete with hard glares and harsh words despite the fact that Rafael was trying.

Scott had no complaints. Melissa and the lawyers arranged that Rafael could have him Tuesdays as well. Rafael proudly walked his son to the bus stop Tuesday and Wednesday mornings, and then in his absence, he nurtured an exhaustion hangover, complete with boiling rage and pounding headaches. He had it under control— until he didn’t.

The job called him to Sacramento, and Rafael cursed the timing. He knew it would happen— mobility was an aspect of the job that was bound to catch up to him. He had considered himself lucky that Beacon Hills had an astounding amount of bizarre cases that made his presence a necessity, but Sacramento had an open, and the pay was better. A lot better.

It was problematic because he couldn’t ask Scott just to visit on the weekends. Until the boy could drive, it would be Rafael’s responsibility to drive into Beacon Hills and bring him back to Sacramento. The mileage was worth it to Rafael, but the Bureau was paying for the car, and they weren’t big on sentimental road trips.

The move could shatter their whole relationship, everything that Rafael had been working so hard to mend. Scott had completely given up on him during the divorce, but he was reasonable and kind enough to see Rafael’s efforts and to meet them halfway. Rafael didn’t know if he would be given that kind of chance again, but he didn’t think he could spend another day driving out to the ashy shell of the Hale house to look stare at the spot of Laura Hale’s horrendous murder.

Scott came home after Wednesday lacrosse practice, sweaty and out-of-breath but not wheezing, which settled some panic in Rafael’s heart.

“Hey, kiddo, how was practice?”

“Lots… of running,” Scott panted. He had always hated the trek up the stairs to his father’s apartment, especially with all his lacrosse pads weighing down his bag. He dumped his things on the floor and went immediately to the kitchen to fill his empty water bottle.

Rafael awkwardly cleared his throat. “Scott, can you come into the living room for a second? I’ve got something I want to talk to you about.”

Scott obediently trudged to the couch, guzzling water and glaring side-eyed at his father, a line of worry drawn between his brows. He sat heavily and quietly, waiting while Rafael gathered every bit of sentiment in his heart.

“I got a job offer,” he explained. “I’ve been talking to the Bureau for a few weeks, and I think it’s a good choice to take it. I need a change of pace, a change of scene. And the pay is a hell of a lot better.”

Scott merely nodded along.

“The problem is, they want me to relocate to Sacramento.”

“ _Sacramento_?!” Scott exclaimed, nearly gasped. He was fully attentive now, hard lines and concerned eyes. The reaction was exactly what Rafael expected but sincerely hoped to avoid. “So… so, you’re gonna move, and then what? Are you going to come in on the weekends still?”

“Well, that’s the thing. I don’t think that’s a possibility. Especially in the beginning,” Rafael said. “There’s going to be so much change. I’ll need some time to settle in, to get my bearings, go over the new case files...”

“So we aren’t going to see each other?” Scott seemed genuinely disappointed, but Rafael wasn’t satisfied with his reaction. He should have been; he should have been ecstatic that his son was dismayed by his absence. But it wasn’t _enough_ , and Rafael felt greedy for it.

"No, of course we’ll see each other,” Rafael soothed him. “I, uh, well, I was actually thinking it would probably be best if you moved to Sacramento _with_ me.”

There was a beat of silence. “What?”

“Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? Your mom wouldn’t have to work all those extra shifts if you’re living with me.” Rafael, as a master at interrogation, manipulated as easily as he breathed. He knew Scott’s pressure point was his mother, knew that if he felt like any sort of burden, he would try to alleviate the weight in any way possible. Making his son feel like a burden didn’t make Rafael feel straight, but if it resulted in Scott’s obedience, he thought that the ends was worth the means. “The hospital bills have been wracking up, and my new salary would be able to pay that off, and then have some left over in case your asthma gets bad again.”

Scott didn’t look convinced, but Rafael could see the weariness in his face. Before Scott could truly contemplate the negatives of leaving Beacon Hill, Rafael pressed on.

“They have an apartment down there for me that’s only a few miles from the office, so I could be home every night for dinner. That’d be a good change, wouldn’t it? It’s a lot better than you going to the Stilinski’s three nights a week.”

“But I like going to the Stilinski’s.”

“Well, with the money I’d be making, I could send you back to Beacon Hills once a month to see them.”

“Once a _month_?” Bewildered, Scott rubbed his face with his hands. “Dad, I don’t _know_ anyone in Sacramento! I don’t have any family. I don’t have any friends—”

“You hardly have any here,” Rafael pointed out. “It would be a fresh start. You could go to a new school, meet new people—”

“But I like the people I have here! I don’t want to leave Stiles or Mr. Stilinski. I don’t want to leave Mom.” The way he said her name made it sound like he was wounded, like the thought of separation from her physically pained him.

Rafael grew frustrated. He knew getting Scott on his side would not be easy, but the boy was hardly listening. "Scott, you mother can barely take care of you as it is," he said. "The Stilinskis are not a proper replacement for a stable home life! They aren't your family, and I know they're very impotant to you—" 

“Of course they’re my family!” Scott exclaimed. He was up on his feet, dark brows knitted, muscle in his jaw twitching. “Who do you think took care of me all those times that you and Mom were fighting? Who do you think gave me a bed and food to eat while you guys were getting divorced?”

“A few weeks of shacking in Stiles’ bedroom doesn’t mean—”

“Without Mr. Stilinski, you’d still be treating me and Mom like a punching bag! Or did you forget about that?” Scott was enraged, and his chest was heaving. Rafael got to his feet and watched warily. “Did you forget about your rage blackouts, and how you would kick us out of the house, and we’d have to go sleep in motels?”

“Scott, my job—”

“Your job is really stressful, and sometimes you have a hard time coping with what you see,” Scott finished in nearly monotone. Flat and tired, rote memorization of an excuse from a broken and nearly unapologetic man. “You know you never said sorry? I mean you _said_ it, but you only said it because you wanted to beat Mom in court. You didn’t say it because you actually meant it.”

“You know that’s not true!” Rafael yelled, though his face flushed in embarrassment. Most of his apology had felt fake, he’d admit, because at the time of the divorce he had been struggling with his demons. He had refused to accept that his actions were wrong, refused to admit that Melissa had a right to leave him. But he knew better now. Isn’t that what counted? “I meant every word of my apology! Every word of it! I love you, and I loved your mother. I never meant to hurt either of you.”

“Yeah, well, you did, and I haven’t forgotten it.”

It felt like a stab wound to the heart. Like every gruesome flashback Rafael had ever experience. The ringing sound of a bullet launched out of a gun. The whoosh of air as his partner heaved his last breath. He felt an agonizing hurt flaring up in his chest and with it, that comfortable rage that was easier to grapple with than the pain.

“What more do you want from me?” Rafael bellowed. “I’m in _therapy_. I _apologized_ , and besides groveling at your feet, Scott, I don’t know what to do to get you to forgive me!”

“I forgave you a long time ago.” It wasn’t in Scott’s nature to hold grudges. Not for long. “But that doesn’t mean I forgot what you said to me. And what you did to Mom.”

“Fine. I get it now,” Rafael seethed. “I’ll never be as good as your mom. No matter _what_ I do to try to make amends, she’s got her claws in you already, and you’re wrapped so tightly around her finger that you’ll never cut me any slack.”

“What are you _talking_ about?” Scott exclaimed. “Dad, I’m not trying to _pick_ between the two of you! You promised I’d never have to do that!” Both Melissa and Rafael had been very civil when they sat him down and explained that the divorce was not his fault, that they both loved him very much, and he would never have to choose between either of them. But Rafael still felt like Scott chose Melissa, and it hurt. “I just want to stay in the town where I grew up! Where I’ve got Stiles and Dr. Deaton and-and _Mom_. I don’t want to leave Mom, Dad. I just don’t. I’m sorry.” Scott always defaulted to apologizing, but he never said it without meaning it. He had no intentions of hurting his father’s feelings, but that wouldn’t change the truth of the matter. Which was this: Scott wanted his mother, much more than he needed his father.

“This is bullshit,” Rafael muttered as he rubbed a hand over his stubbled chin. “This is _bullshit_!” he repeated vehemently. Scott stepped back from the outburst. “I have tried so hard to make things right with you, and it’s never enough!”

“Of course it’s enough,” Scott’s voice wavered but was loud enough to be heard over the raging pounding in Rafael’s ears. “It means a lot to me that you did what you did. But that doesn’t mean I want to move to Sacramento with you.”

“I don’t deserve this.”

“You don’t deserve _what_?”

“You should go,” Rafael said, voice faltering as he struggled to control the bubbling rage in his chest. “I really think you should go.”

“Go where? Why? What did I do?”

“Scott, just got back to your mother’s house. It’s clear that’s where you want to be anyway.”

“I never _said_ that! Dad—!” Scott took a tentative step forward but launched back in fear as his father swung wild arms, knocking every picture frame and random knick knack off the mantle above the fireplace. “Okay. Okay.” His voice was small and riddled with anxiety. He stumbling back in shaky steps, scooping up his messy sports equipment and his backpack and scrambling out the front door.

 

Too frazzled to think properly, Scott walked the four miles back to Melissa’s house. It was pitch black outside, and his shoulders ached where his backpack straps bit into them. The arches of his feet felt swollen in pain, and his chest was still heaving from an hour of alternating crying and trying to keep his asthma from attacking him.

When he shoved open the front door, Melissa gasped out loud, jumping up from the couch and reaching for the baseball bat she kept nearby on the nights Scott was not home. “Scott? Honey, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at your father’s!”

Scott gasped, hot tears burning previously-forged trails on his face. Melissa crossed the room wordlessly, and when her arms wrapped around his trembling frame, his belongings dropped to the floor.

“Come on.” She wouldn’t ask what happened, not yet. He wasn’t ready yet. She wiped away the wetness with her hands and cupped his chin in her palms. “I’ll call John and Stiles, and we’ll finally get them to watch _El Laberinto de Pan_ with us, okay?”

Stiles was terrified of the faun and spent every moment of his screentime flailing about in desperate attempt not to watch. John spent most of the movie whispering questions and complaining that the subtitles moved too fast. But Scott felt at home. He felt safe.

 

When he returned to his father’s house for the weekend, he found that his spare key no longer worked. He banged on the door with dry knuckles for ten minutes before peering through the window to see the apartment void of any personal belongings. When he looked down, he noticed the corner of a note peeping from under the mat.

_Took the job. Will be in contact soon. -Dad_

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but he quickly wiped them away and took one last, resolute breath. No more tears would be wasted on Rafael McCall, who had given him his name and a few good years. It was time to move forward, to embrace what family he had picked on his own. Stiles Stilinski would always be there. John Stilinski wouldn’t walk out on him. His mother would always love him.

For now, that was all he needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know these have been pretty chronological, as far as Stiles' and Scott's childhood goes, but I don't think the rest of the chapters will flow that way. I will probably be writing ideas as they come. If you have any suggestions, any situations you would like to see, let me know!
> 
> I'm also so sorry that my formatting is always so janky. I have no idea how to fix it!


	6. Chapter 6

 

When he picked up his head, Isaac figured he’d be lost, but he was surprised to find that he was standing on the McCall’s front step, a place that wasn’t, perhaps, home, but wasn’t entirely unfamiliar. There was a light on the porch, glowing orange in the dark, rainy night. It buzzed loudly, humming Isaac into a safe consciousness. Of all the dangerous places for Isaac to be in Beacon Hills, the most dangerous of all was inside his own mind.

Though he didn’t feel cold, he registered how difficult it was to curl numb fingers into a fist. He wanted to knock; he was soaked to the bone and shaking and scared, and this house, though not his, looked much more welcoming than his ever was. Because he remembered that his porch light had to be out at five o’clock so no one would come to call. He remembered blinds being drawn tight, silence layered over the dinner table. And so many broken things. Plates and bones and hearts, things he couldn’t imagine being broken in the McCall home.

He merely watched in surprise as he rapped scraped knuckles on the blue door. Nothing but the sound of the steady rain on the pavement and the gentle hum of the porch light greeted him. He stumbled back off the stoop, familiar with the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. Hunger, fear, disappointment, shame. Isaac hadn’t felt it since his father was alive— perhaps because Derek had never left him out in the dark before now.

The door popped open, and Isaac wheeled around at the sound, bewildered and overjoyed all at once.

“Isaac?” Mrs. McCall had a spatula in her hand and what looked to be pancake batter in her hair. She squinted through the deluge of rain, calling out over the pattering din. “Isaac, what are you doing here?”

He approached the woman slowly, like an animal in the park terrified to accept the bread offered by the stranger but so desperately in need of it that his hunger drew him closer. Brow knit, words caught in the back of his throat. “I dunno,” he mumbled with a shrug of his narrow shoulders. He caught chapped lips between his teeth and hugged his arms around his trembling chest.

“Well, come inside and stay dry for a bit, at least,” Melissa demanded, waving him inside. He stared dumbly at her and traveled so slowly up the stairs that she thought he might be injured. With careful nurse’s eyes, she ushered him inside.

When the door shut behind him, he marvel at the inside of the house like he had entered the a museum of hidden wonders, like an extravagant castle paved with gold. It was less awe over the worn wallpaper and scratched hardwood as it was that he had been given permission to be inside the home.

A small puddle of water gathered at his feet. When he saw it, he stumbled out of the way, profusely apologizing, wildly flailing, heart pounding in his chest. Melissa reached out a hand to steady him, and he shrunk away, a conditioned response. She furrowed her brow and promised she could clean it and not to worry, but Isaac could not find it in himself to believe her.

“I’m making breakfast for dinner,” she told him, waving her spatula. “Do you like pancakes? I can put a few more on the stove. Or we’ve got eggs and bacon. I could probably find some Eggos in the freezer, too, if you want, though I can’t promise they’re not stale—”

“Th-thank you, but... I’m not hungry,” Isaac stuttered.

Melissa raised a brow. “I’ll just make a few more pancakes. Just in case.”

The silence that followed was thick, uncomfortable, and filled with many intangible things that she couldn’t comprehend. “Scott is in his room, if you want to grab some dry clothes from him. I’ll call you down for dinner in a few.”

Isaac treaded up the steps one at a time, walking as if he was walking to his death. The stair creaked under his weight, and he jumped in surprise, hand over his heart. “Get it together, Isaac,” he muttered to himself. “Don’t be such a whimp.” He yanked off his sweater; it felt too heavy over his chest, too restrictive to breathe properly. He felt building anxiety as the thick wool left a trail of rainwater in his wake. In a panic, he tossed it into the bathroom floor with a loud _thwack_ on the tile.

He tried to shake the nervousness from his limbs, fingers endlessly furling and unfurling by his side before he reached up a fist to knock on the door. “Come on in, Mom!” And that was kind of an invitation, so he took it, shouldering open the door and pausing as Scott wheeled around to face him.

The smile on Scott’s face faded, and any miniscule amount of courage that Isaac dug up was suddenly burrowed deep back into his chest. He swallowed hard and pressed forward, the sound of broken glass ringing in his ears.

“I was wondering if I could ask you a favor?” Isaac’s voice was weak and tired and unsteady. He felt as though his lips were moving and no words were coming out. It was not the typical unwavering cadence, assertive and meaningful, that he picked up after joining Derek’s pack. He was not the same as he was the last time he spoke with Scott.

It was amazing how many things could change in just a few short hours.  


 

And it was amazing how quickly and seamlessly Isaac folded into the McCall’s home. Within two weeks, he had accumulated a small pile of belongings that he neatly stored in the back of Scott’s closet. His sleeping bag had been replaced with one of the twin beds in the guest room, a brand new set of blue sheets pulled taut across the mattress. (They had been a garish pink before— a wedding gift from Rafael’s cousins— and Melissa had been waiting years for an excuse to replace them, or so she said.)

He had been adopted into the routine of their lives with barely a hiccup. There was some nervous trembling, a morning where Melissa found Isaac sleeping in the closet. Most issues that arose were internally dealt with by Isaac before his panic got out-of-hand, and for the most part, the transition was smooth.

Isaac was notoriously an early riser. Mornings came to him easily; he greeted the sun each time it poked through his blinds. The appreciation came when he spent a childhood praying each night to make it to a new day.

Melissa enjoyed the change. While she loved the life that she and Scott had built together, it had become stagnant over the years. Breathable, but boring, predictable. Then her son turned out to be a werewolf, and that rattled up the routine in a way. But like every other curve thrown at Melissa McCall, she dodged it, dealt with it, and everything stabilized again. She was flexible and solid at the same time. She didn’t bend unless it was to her own will.

She and Isaac walked quiet circles around each other, both still drawn inward from hours locked away in their subconscious lives. She was nursing a mug of hot coffee when he padded in, curls awry, eyes ringed with sleep but bright and alive. His bare feet stuck to the  linoleum as he moved to the fridge for his creamer.

“Here, I’ll grab you a mug,” Melissa yawned. She struggled on her tip toes, fingering the top shelf of her cabinets. Wordlessly, Isaac came to the rescue, clasping around a mug and simultaneously elbowing Melissa’s out of her hand.

The cup hit the floor with a crash, pieces of shattered glass scattering across the floor. Drips of coffee pattered on the ground, and Melissa whipped the hot liquid off her skin with a flick of her wrists.

“Oh, Isaac, honey, careful!” she exclaimed, absorbed in the stains gathering on her scrubs. “Don’t move, and let me get a br—” Her words abruptly stopped as she glanced up to see that the space previously occupied by Isaac was empty. “Isaac?”

Isaac was tucked behind the counter, crouched, his arms over his head, his face buried into his knees. Droplets of blood gathered at his feet where slivers of the mug bit into his soles. For a few moments, Melissa could do nothing but stare in confusion and fear. She spent a gratuitous amount of time trying to knit together this sudden series of events, brow furrowed as she watched a teenaged boy fold in on himself. Only the sound of his hurried whimper brought her back to reality.

“Isaac?” she tried carefully, wincing as her shoes crunched over glass. His back was to her, but he was visibly trembling. Tentatively, she laid a hand between his shoulder blades, and he tensed, a sharp and panicked flinch away from the warmth of her caress. Instead of pulling back, she rubbed a small circle there, squatting beside him. “Isaac, honey, it’s okay. It’s just a mug. I have twenty other ones.”

Where Scott normally melted into her touch, Isaac seemed to only shake harder, and Melissa had to calculate the exact distance she should be from a boy who needed her help but could simultaneously tear her throat open with his claws. She withdrew her hand and sunk back.

“Okay, Isaac, I’m going to sit next to you, okay?” she asked him, voice level but soothing. Quiet. Calm. “Will you sit down too?”

She lowered herself beside him, separating his view from that of the remnants of her mug. She pressed her back against the cabinet and let out a breath she didn’t know she had trapped beneath her sternum. Her heart hummed anxiously, but when she placed a hand on Isaac’s back, she could feel the hammering of his heart and knew she had less to fear than he did.

Or hoped.

It took a few minutes, but Isaac gently shifted and released his tight grip around himself. He slid back, pressing himself against the cabinet beside Melissa. He propped up his knees, brought them up to his chest and hugged them there. His blue eyes zeroed forward. A muscle ticked in his jaw. Any sudden movement Melissa made was met with a jerk.

“I’m sorry that scared you,” she said quietly, in the voice she used to use to tell Scott how beautiful and smart and amazing he was after Rafael had torn his confidence to shreds. “Do you mind if I look at your feet? I think they got cut up.”

“They healed.” His voice was hoarse, and he coughed to hide the way he sniffed back his tears.

Werewolf, she reminded herself. How could this sweet, frightened boy harness so much power and still be so afraid? Melissa knew little about Isaac’s past except that it was dark and scary, and Scott said it would probably make her ill to know the details. Isaac didn’t talk about it, and she didn’t ask, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t ever curious.

“Well, if it healed over the glass, we’ll need to open it and get the glass out before it does any internal damage, all right?” Isaac’s answer is an almost imperceptible nod. “You don’t have to tell me why, but can you tell me what scared you? So I know not to do it in the future?”

“You didn’t do it.” Isaac had done it. Isaac had knocked the glass from her hand. His father had done it. He had instilled in Isaac a deep fear of that sound, which meant danger and pain, not just messy accidents. “It’s just. The… sound.”

Melissa contemplated for a moment. It wouldn’t always be possible to protect him from falling glass, from shattering plates and scenes on television shows. But she knew how disruptive his fear could be in his own life. She knew that he couldn’t spend the rest of his life hiding behind the kitchen cabinets.

“I know this won’t fix things just yet,” she offered slowly, “but you don’t have to be afraid of that sound anymore, okay? It’s gonna take some time getting used to, but you’re safe here. From whatever that sound means to you.”

Isaac nodded again and reached up to rub at the wetness gathering in his eyes. Melissa pretended not to notice and instead started to get to her feet. In a crouch, she pressed a kiss on his forehead, which he leaned into, just barely, eyes fluttering closed.

  
“I’ll grab the broom.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just desperately needed some cute, fluffy, happy after what this show has done to me. Here's some brotherly bonding.

Friday nights were date night.

Movie in the DVD player, a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, door locked, lights out. It was their night. No phones. No distractions. A night to get back to the way it used to be when their lives weren’t so hectic.

Friday night, nearly every Friday night, for the past too many years.

“Scott, stop hogging the popcorn.”

“Stiles, get your elbow out of my face.”

Isaac sat on his bed with a sketchbook every Friday night, trying not to eavesdrop. He’d scribble mindless pictures, caricatures of the people he knew, epithets to the ones he used to know. A pair of his dad’s glasses, glinting on the kitchen table. Erica’s favorite novel that she read under the covers when she thought everyone else was asleep. Scott’s bike helmet. Stiles’...

Well, he hadn’t drawn something for Stiles yet because he didn’t know enough of him to feel so inclined. To Isaac, art was the only intimate thing he had left after the dissolution of his family. It wasn’t that Stiles wasn’t worthy of passion, just that he hadn’t earned it _yet_.

 

Isaac pulled his pillow over his head and pressed the cushion to his ears to drown out the noise. Scott and Stiles weren’t being noisy— not anymore than they normally were— but there was something about the grunting and the sound of flesh hitting flesh that was particularly loud that night, and it was making Isaac’s stomach churn.

He tossed on his squeaking mattress, folding his legs up to his chest and wrapping thin fingers around his ankles. When he peered at the luminescent red numbers glowing from his bedside table, they read 2:43 AM.

Isaac felt a tremor shimmy up his spine, a tell-tale sign that he was getting anxious. He hopped to his feet and paced silently around the room, biting his lips together and wringing his wrists.

Melissa had told him to never be afraid to ask for anything in this house.

On the stairs, he heard the hurried whisper of Scott, “Shh, dude, someone’s coming down the stairs.” The television light didn’t flicker, but the sound zapped off, and Isaac could hear their shallow breathing when he stopped in the doorway.

“Hey, guys, sorry to… I…” He bit his lip and danced on the spot, hovering between the hall and the living room.

“We thought you were Melissa,” Stiles laughed, turning back to the screen. “Unpause, Scott. I was just about to club a civilian with a metal pipe.”

Isaac faltered back a step, and Scott’s eyes narrowed.

“Unpause, Scott!” Stiles demanded, catching a strand of licorice between his teeth. When he received no immediate response, he whipped back around, harsh lines of defense in his posture, and softened when he saw the subtle exchange between Isaac and Scott. “Uh… you wanna play, Isaac?”

Isaac shook his head and swallowed hard.

“Are you okay?” Scott’s voice was gentle.

“It’s… the sound. I heard it in my bedroom,” Isaac explained, scooting so far back into the hall that the light from the television barely reached him. He bathed in shadow, but his eyes were bright in the darkness, round and timid.

After sitting down at the kitchen table, Melissa had Isaac explain to Scott about triggers— the things, whether they were sounds or movements or even smells, that flicked a switch in his mind. Things that caused panic, that ripped buried memories up to the surface. He explained that he didn’t know when they would come, and sometimes he didn’t know they were a trigger until they set off the chain reaction. Scott listened carefully, as Scott always did, and he made every effort to understand and accommodate.

He would not be his mother’s son if he did anything less.

“We’ll play something else,” Scott said to Stiles but not breaking his eye contact with Isaac.

“Are you _serious_? We can just mute it—” Stiles started, but Scott’s exasperated glare in his direction stopped him. “What about Call of Duty?”

Scott hesitated, knowing that Isaac had spent all of his pent up bravery already. “How about MarioKart?” He strained his ears and heard the hammering of Isaac’s heart skip and start to slow. “Come on, we still have a tie to settle from last week, remember?”

Stiles hid his reluctance in a dramatic battle roll to the game console. He switched out the discs after Scott saved their spot in the game and army-crawled back to the couch, blindly grabbing an open bag of M&Ms from the coffee table and spilling half over the couch in an attempt to pour it into his open mouth. Isaac flinched at the mess.

“You wanna play?” Scott asked his friend tentatively, holding up a controller.

Isaac shook his head. “I don’t know how.”

Stiles froze, horrified. “You don’t know how to play MarioKart?”

“I’ve… I’ve never played before.”

Stiles looked at Scott as if Isaac had just started speaking in Japanese. “ _Ever_? Like in your whole life, you’ve never played MarioKart?” A headshake. “What about Assassin’s Creed? Grand Theft Auto I-V?” Stiles grew more desperate as he wracked his brain for good titles. “Have you ever played a videogame in your life?” The final headshake was greeted with an over-zealous moan of pain as he heaved himself off the couch.

Isaac started retreating again as Stiles approached. The boy, not purposefully blind to Isaac’s body language, looped an arm over his shoulders and dragged him to the couch.

“My friend, we are about to introduce you to a whole _world_ that you have been so horribly depraved of.” He sat Isaac down next to Scott and sunk into the cushions beside him, placing a wireless remote through his fingers. He stretched an arm over the back of the couch and leaned back with a mischievous grin. “Welcome to XBox, my friend.”

 

It was four o’clock in the morning by the time Isaac figured out how to navigate the game. Stiles grinned widely as Isaac clumsily drove around a banana peel. “You passed.”

Isaac looked bewildered. “Passed?”

“You passed!” Stiles exclaimed. He snatched up the bag of M&Ms, distraught to find that he had emptied most of it into the couch cushions. He tossed the trash behind him. “Once you pass the first track of MarioKart, you’re officially one of us.”

“One-one of _who_?”

“The _family_!” Stiles exclaimed, as if it was entirely obvious. Isaac, overwhelmed, looked to Scott, whose soft smile and eye roll told him that this was one of Stiles’ antics, but it meant enough to him not to rudely interject about it. “My dad did it. Even Melissa passed. You’re officially a McCall now. Hope you brush up on your Spanish.”

 

After collapsing in his bed and not waking up until well past noon, Isaac snatched up his sketchbook. By the time Melissa called him down for dinner, he had drawn a video game controller, for Stiles.

 

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so now that the canon has established that Claudia died when Stiles was around six years old, that makes my math really weird for this fic. So for the sake of sticking with what I've already written, Claudia died when Stiles was in his early teens. Sorry if that's confusing for you all...   
> Honestly, that's not even a major theme in this chapter. It just comes up in one super-brief line, and I wanted to explain myself. Enjoy!

Mornings are generally blurry for the McCall family. Melissa is an early riser out of necessity, not habit. She misses the days that she would see Rafael off for work and then would sneak into Scott’s room and cuddle up to him for another hour or so, when their lives weren’t so busy and dangerous. When Scott was smaller and had seen less horror. When her job as a mother was more kissing boo-boos and making lunches than electrocuting rogue Alphas and keeping her house from collapsing because of over-anxious werewolves.

Scott sometimes has to be physically pulled out of bed by Isaac, who curiously never seems to sleep, and then it’s just a mad rush to get breakfast and bathing in before they had to haul-ass to their various responsibilities.

Somewhere between handing Scott his bike helmet and finishing off her coffee, she hears a quiet, “Um, Melissa?” echoing in the garage. She pokes her head in and sees Isaac, leaning over her front seat, keys in the ignition. (He had added a step to his morning routine— warming up the car before Melissa got in, something thoughtful that even Scott hadn’t thought of.) The car rumbles mightily and then sputters out. “The car isn’t starting.”

Melissa groans and lightly bangs her forehead against the doorway in frustration. 

Isaac dances awkwardly from foot-to-foot, lip biting, keys jangling in his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Sweetie, you have nothing to apologize for,” she promises, fishing her phone out of her pocket. She makes a desperate phone call to a cardiac surgeon from a few blocks away, promising to buy her as much coffee as she wanted if she could carpool to work. By the time she hangs up the phone, Isaac is standing in the kitchen, backpack strapped over his shoulders, quiet.

Melissa realizes her mistake.

“Oh, Isaac,” she sighs. With Scott taking his motor bike and Isaac without a car, she typically drives Isaac to school before starting towards work. She has grown to really enjoy that part of the morning. While Isaac isn’t often much as a conversational partner, their drives are often peaceful and quiet, a lull in the chaotic jumble of their lives. “Honey, I totally forgot.”

“It’s okay,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders. He is used to being forgotten. “I can just take Scott’s old bike. I used to bike to school all the time.”

“Absolutely not, it’s freezing out there,” Melissa demands. Scott in his leather jacket and ten minute commute on his death-trap motorcycle is not much of a weather concern. Isaac with his sweater and twenty minutes on the roads is not something she could condone. “Go grab a thicker coat, and I’ll think of something.”

Isaac hesitates, like he had something more to stay, and instead disappears up the stairs.

 

When he comes back down, he has a scarf wrapped around his neck. “I thought I said thicker coat,” Melissa warned.

Isaac twitches. “I-I don’t have one.” They haven’t had a winter together yet, and Melissa isn’t as comfortable rooting around his wardrobe for inventory as she is with Scott. A boy like Isaac needs more privacy than Melissa is used to. She has learned to stay away.

“We’ll buy you one this weekend, okay?” Isaac looks ready to protest. “You need a coat in this weather, or Child Services is going to haul me to jail.” So he doesn’t. “John’s going to take you to school, okay?” 

Isaac looks doubtful. His fingers tighten around the straps on his backpack. But he nods, significantly paler and more rigid than before.

When John’s cruiser pulls up in front of the house, Melissa greets him where the front walk meets the curb. He rolls down his window, and she leans in. “Should I come with you?”

John wrinkles his brow. “To drive fifteen minutes to the school?” he asks. “I think I can make it there on my own.”

“I just. He looks  _ nervous _ , John,” Melissa worries, dropping her voice when she hears the front door snap shut behind her. 

John glances over her shoulder, watches the short steps he takes, the way his gaze casts towards the bare trees and the dying grass but never directly at the car. John meets eyes with Melissa. “I always got Scott to school all right, didn’t I?” he asks. “It’s gonna be fine.”

Melissa feels a murmur of disagreement in her chest but nods slightly anyway. John offers a warm smile and addresses the boy over Melissa’s shoulder.

“Isaac, where’s your coat? It’s supposed to get cold today.”

Isaac jerks to a halt, paralyzed. When his eyes meet anxiously with Melissa’s, he looks ill. Melissa turns back to John, speaking loudly so Isaac can hear her answer for him. “We’re buying one today. After school.” She smiles softly and gestures out to Isaac. “Come on, Ize. You’re gonna be late.”

Isaac nods, and he seems to take painstaking care to put one foot in front of the other. One of the first conversations he had with the Sheriff was about funeral arrangements for his father, once Isaac’s name had been cleared of the murder, about apologies that the adults of Beacon Hills had failed for so long to protect him. 

Melissa opens and shuts the door behind him. Isaac sits rigid in the seat, mechanically clipping the belt over his chest. He stares stonily ahead, fingers tapping a nervous tattoo onto his thigh. Melissa worries her lip between her teeth, rubs a hand through his curls, withdrawing when he seizes up. “Have a good day. I’ll see you after school, and we’ll go get that coat, all right?” 

John waves good-bye and rolls up the window. As the car pulls from the curb, Melissa thinks so hard that she thinks John can hear it.

_ Take care of him. _

 

“How ya doin’, Isaac?” John asks, bright, trying to exude happy-not-dangerous from every pore. He drives careful in the morning traffic, avoiding sudden stops and jerks. He remembers meeting Isaac in the graveyard after the excavator truck had been upended. He remembers how he asked, “How’d you get that black eye, Isaac?” and how easily the boy had lied. 

Instead of lying, Isaac doesn’t answer at all. To his credit, he tries, but his mouth fractures open, and he looks too ill to speak. So his silence persists. 

“Do you need me to… crack a window or something?” John isn’t used to having to prompt kids into talking. Living in close quarters with Stiles means bribing into silence is a more practiced art form. Isaac shakes his head. 

John cracks the window, just a bit.

Isaac’s chest rises and falls with ragged endeavor. His fingers won’t stop tapping. John clears his throat in the most non-threatening way he knows how. Every movement towards the radio dials is measured. He even watches his breath. Normally, his gun is his intimidation— threat of grounding, threat of jail time. He doesn’t recall a time in which a teenaged boy has been afraid of his being. 

“Are you feeling all right?” John asks, and Isaac’s nod is nothing more than the jerking tremors of anxiety, so John pulls over. 

Isaac finally turns to him, eyes wide. It’s hard for John to believe that this is the kid Stiles rages about over dinner. About his obnoxious sarcasm and undying pessimism, about how he’ll never forgive Isaac for trying to kill Lydia Martin. This doe-eyed, trembling from head-to-toe teenager who had more experience with punches than kisses. This curly-headed panic-ridden mess of a kid who can’t breathe from sharing a car with another man.

“Why don’t we get some breakfast?” he asks. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

Isaac chokes on his first attempt at rebuttal and finally says, “But the s-school…”

“I think they’ll be just fine if the Sheriff calls in to say you’ll be missing.” The terrified look on Isaac’s face makes John second guess himself, but he puts the car into drive anyway. “Come on. I know a place that makes great breakfast burritos.”

 

It’s the same diner he’s been going to for years. The one where he and Claudia took Stiles for his third birthday. The one where he confronted Rafael about his abusive tendencies. The diner is a mixture of home and of nightmares, but John stubbornly clings to the good memories because these days, lingering on the bad ones could suck him in too deep.

He wades through awkward, mostly one-sided small talk, until two greasy bags are dropped on the counter. He gestures Isaac back out to the squad car, and they sit down, one burrito for each, in the nearly empty parking lot. 

As the sheriff, he has had to have a lot of very hard conversations with people. He tries to shoulder this as just another one of those, but it feels much more difficult than that.

“I’m sorry I’m making you so uncomfortable,” he starts off with an apology, “but I think it’s time we had a bit of a talk. We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other, you know, since I learned about. That thing.” John fumbles over his wording. 

Isaac merely stares at the food in his lap.

“Do you think you can forgive me?” John asks. 

Isaac looks up, brow drawn slightly. 

“I saw right through the lie you told me that day at the cemetery. I saw the way your father looked at you. I saw how scared you were.” John hasn’t admitted it out loud, but it feels right that the first time he’s honest is to Isaac himself. “But I told myself that if you had an out, you’d take it. But you’re not like that.” Isaac is made of tougher things than he thinks. When his life was at its hardest, he clung to the shreds of his happiness and waited out the storm with silent resilience. “I should have known better, and I’m sorry.”

Isaac’s words are to the dashboard. “You weren’t the only one. It’s fine.”

John wants to explain that he wouldn’t accept that excuse, but he fears coming off as combative, so he bites his tongue. “Can you tell me about him? Your father?”

“Don’t you have a report already?” 

“But before that.”

“What do you want to know?” 

“Anything you want to tell me.”

Isaac fingers a scar that runs down his arm, rumples a napkin in his lap. “He was a swim coach,” he says. His voice is shaky, but he gains some power as he goes on. “He had me and Camden in the pool before we could walk, practically. He was a really good coach. He just wasn’t good at dealing with people who weren’t the best.” 

John remembers that Camden was on the team. Isaac mysteriously wasn’t. Perhaps because by the time Isaac was old enough to try out, his body carried too many signs of abusive to bare his skin to the swim team. Or perhaps because he was one of those swimmers who wasn’t the very best. 

Perhaps he carried some signs of abuse  _ because _ he wasn’t the very best.

“He watched a lot of golf,” Isaac continues, without prompting. “And he used to take us camping before Cam died. He was really good at that kind of stuff. Tent pitching and fire making. Cam swore up and down that Dad could survive in the wilderness for years with nothing but his bare hands and a skin mag.” His face burns at the pornographic allusion, but when John doesn’t react, he continues as if there was no slip. “He got these really bad migraines all the time. Camden got ‘em too. Mom used to beg him to go to the hospital for CAT scans and stuff. He didn’t really believe in hospitals, though.”

John watches Isaac unfold the story in choppy fragments, the bits and pieces that meant something to him in one way or another. Isaac is soft lines and soft voice now. He pokes the prongs of his plastic fork into his burrito, starts to shred off bites.

_ Anything you  _ want  _ to tell me _ . John realizes that what Isaac wants to tell him are nonsensical moments of his father’s memory, puzzle pieces that John had a hard time melding with the image he created of David Lahey. Isaac wants to talk about the human side of his father when lately, people only ask about the man if they want to know about the monster.

“Everyone always thinks that I’m so stupid for lying for him,” Isaac says to the floor of the car. He peels a piece of bacon from his burrito and examines it blindly. “I just… he taught me my times tables.” 

It’s that childlike innocence that makes John shiver. Such an insignificant frame of reference to how good Mr. Lahey used to be. As if teaching his son math was an excuse for abusing him for nearly a decade. But Isaac clings to it because it was once so important to him, that his father had done those little things. 

John stops chewing. The thought of harming Stiles makes his insides churl in disgust. 

“You saw the freezer, didn’t you?” Isaac asks John. It’s the first question that’s been posed, and John isn’t ready for it. Isaac laughs softly into the silence, picking at his food. “No, you did. I remember. That’s why you thought I killed him.”

John sighs. “Isaac—”

“No, no, I don’t… I don’t blame you,” Isaac admits, and he’s not lying. “I  _ wanted _ to kill him. The only thing that stopped me was the fact that I physically  _ couldn’t _ .” The nonchalance in his voice sends a shiver down John’s spine. It’s the first time he really sees the ruthless anger in Isaac upclose. “So maybe it’s lucky that Matt went nuts when he did. Otherwise I’d be in jail for murdering a man who tortured me for half my life.”

John understands the fury, the knee jerk reaction to being under-appreciated and mistreated for so long. He doesn’t condone Isaac’s rampage around Beacon Hills after he had gotten the Bite, doesn’t condone his desire to kill Lydia Martin, to wreak havoc in the high school, to slash up Scott McCall at the ice rink. He doesn’t condone it, but he’d be a blind man not to understand it. Isaac had been shrunken down into utter insignificance. No power. No hope. Derek Hale had served him a steroid shot of strength, a chance to take back all the control he had lost. He hadn’t just been hungry for power; he had been  _ starved _ . 

The conversation drops into a long silence. Isaac has nothing more to offer— nothing more he  _ wants _ to offer— and the quiet is not entirely uncomfortable. They sit, shoulder-to-shoulder, sharing a meal and an understanding that they hadn’t shared before.

“Can I be honest with you, Isaac?” John asks. Isaac, mouthful of food, turns to look at the man. “I didn’t take you to get breakfast burritos to grill you about your life.” That is just an occupational habit that he needs to kick. “I came to ask you about Melissa.”

Isaac looks hesitant. “What about her?” His shoulders square dangerously, protectively. He’s not about to volunteer any information about her that Melissa would not volunteer herself. He owes Melissa the privacy she graciously gives him.

“What would you think,” John starts and then stops, mentally chewing his words. He works his jaw, opens it, closes it. Waits for inspiration, for courage. “What would you think if I were to ask her out?”

Isaac blinks, expression blank. His breakfast burrito drips onto his lap.

“On a date.”

The boy’s brow knits. “Why are you asking me?” he questions. “Shouldn’t you be asking Scott—?”

“Scott and Stiles have been begging me to ask Melissa on a date for nearly five years,” John says, waving his hand. “I just wanted to make sure that you were okay with it before I made any decisions.”

Isaac still looks confused. “But why does it matter what I say? As long as Melissa is okay with it—?”

“Because you’re her son,” John says with a shrug of his shoulders, and Isaac recoils— not like he’s been hit but like he’s been awestruck. “And I don’t want to be stepping on anyone’s toes here.”

Isaac feels warmth pool out from his heart— like someone has bottled up sunshine and injected it into his bloodstream. At first, the notion makes him dizzy, but as it settles into his bones, he realizes that the tingling is less disorienting than it is uplifting. It feels comfortable enough, like a new sweater that he needs to wear for a while to decide if it fits right. He  _ feels _ like a McCall, but he isn’t entirely sure if the McCalls feel the same. Before he immerses himself too much in the new role, he wants to make sure it’s his to take.

He hesitates with his answer, looking at John with new eyes. “Yeah,” he says with a sharp nod. “Yeah, if Melissa wants to go on a date with you, then yeah, of course that’s fine.”

John offers a smile. “Thank you.” He balls up his trash and starts up the engine. “Now, finish up that burrito. We’ve got to get you to school before your mom finds out that I took you to play hookey.” 

**Author's Note:**

> So, basically, I just want to write about the best family to ever family. Isaac will probably show up in later chapters, as he's becoming part of the McCall family, so he bears importance, right? (Plus I love Isaac Lahey.)


End file.
